


Hide and Seek

by Bloody_Vixen



Series: Trapped in the Sewers [4]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dark, F/M, Gen, Pennywise (IT) is His Own Warning, Spider!Penny Makes a Quick Cameo, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 03:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15063581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloody_Vixen/pseuds/Bloody_Vixen
Summary: Ready or not {y/n}, here I come.Or It and You are playing Hide and Seek and Patrick inadvertently crashes in.





	Hide and Seek

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes, I know, I KNOW I'm supposed to be writing the next chapter of "Meet the Parents (It Style)" but this has been poking me and I just want to get it out of my system. 
> 
> The reader in this is from "Mother's Wisdom" and "Not Anymore" but it can also be standalone.

_10…_

Your mouth tightens as you try to plead with It with your eyes. Its’ eyes glowed, like a warning: play along…or _else._

_9…_

Your head whips around the stage as your legs hobble towards the edge, still shaking after It’s version of a wake-up call.

_8…_

The cistern was lit for once, because of the last few attempts where you struggled to hide led you to stumble blindly in the dim light and it wasn’t _fun_ , _oh no {y/n}, not fun at all._

_7…_

All the grates swing open, beckoning you, almost mocking even. You think of bones, as they crunch underneath your bare feet, the screams and tears that had become almost like whispery wind to you since you were last imprisoned here.

_6…_

You picked one grate, knowing that it will always lead back here. Always. But you had always nursed that hope, however atomic, that maybe _just maybe_ , It will slip, be distracted by a terrified child or some random soul that thought the sewers were the best place to play. And you’d be free.

_5…_

Just a glimpse of trees, or sky, and you’re free. You’d run of course, you’d run even as your legs burn and your soles crack and bleed. You’d even steal a car, a bike, _anything_ and leave Derry behind – go far, _far away_ where you’d be free.

_4…_

You are now past the grate, water splashing all around you and although you know you are no longer near the cistern, It’s voice seem to be whispering beside your ear.

_3…_

There wasn’t much to hide in the tunnels, of course, but you had to try. It hates it when you give up, hysterical and sobbing as It tackles you. _Spoil sport!_ It calls you, as It forces you onto your knees, those long hard claws, digging into your face as It morphs, flesh to exoskeleton, face to mandible jaws and long, segmented legs holding you still as It fucks you.

_2…_

You don’t know what was worst, It being upset or being happy. You find a crack, just big enough for you, almost hidden behind the roots. It pops to you like a beacon, like hope…like bait.

_1…_

You take it anyway.

_Ready or not! Here I come!_

* * *

_“Oh dear, where, oh, where could my dear {y/n} be?”_

Your hands clamp your mouth and nose, as you shut your eyes. Like those time when you were a child and you were in the firm belief that if you can’t see anybody, nobody can see you.

Silly, stupid but you want to take some small comfort it in. It likes to pretend It doesn’t know where you are and what you’re doing, just like It likes to pretend that keeping you here is a blessing and that _you’re just not grateful {y/n}._

The first time you made it clear you’d rather not be, It changed. You remember the pus and open sores and cut and the _smell_ , far worse than the shitty water, how flies formed a halo around the Sick One.

How It made you beg to fuck It.

It was the closest time you nearly scared yourself to death. After that you’d take the Spider, the Woman, the Clown, all of them, as long as you never, _ever,_ see the Sick One again.

Gorge climb up your throat, threatening to reveal your hiding place. It was so like It, to tease such memories. For all It’s claims that It just wanted you happy and content, It loved tugging those memories back.

_“Aww, is poor {y/n} sad again? Come here, child, let me make you happy. Oh, yes, so, so, happy.”_

Pain throbs between your legs, torn between that traitorous desire and the ache of knowing what will come. At least you no longer bleed regularly. It does not surprise you that It loved It when you bleed. It’s eyes burning red as blood trickles down your thighs, mouth salivating with anticipation. You never bled for more than an hour, It had seen to that.

By right you ought to be dead – no human can survive on the moldy food and rain water for long – but it seemed to like keeping you around. Just barely above starvation and enough to take the vigorous fucking but never enough to save the children or to escape.

“Gee, are you here {y/n}?” you hear It’s voice some distance away, followed by the sounds of stomping feet against water.

Any other would try to peek but you know better. Time might be alien to you now, but it’s too early.

At least an hour, you pray, at least one, then maybe, just maybe, It’ll leave you alone today.

Just once. You pray to any deity, just once.

You’re an atheist but it never hurts to try.

You have too.

* * *

Then you hear it.

“I hear ya, tits…”

A splash, then sounds of fire, in quick bursts that reminds you of a flamethrower.

Your stomach sinks even as your heart rejoice: a victim.

The air in the sewers changed. Before it had an air of dangerous playfulness but now…It’s time to hunt.

“Don’t think you can stay down here all damn day now…” the victim teased, echoing what he does not know to be his last words. You want to scream, to warn but as soon as you heard it, the many footsteps, the _girlish giggling_ and you know it’s too late.

_…Patrick…_

Another burst and then a scream.

You hear Patrick run, screaming incoherently as It chases him. Part of you hated how your body sags with relief, because It’s focus is on another, even as whatever’s left of your soul begin to sob at the fact that one more victim, one more child is destined to die.

Patrick seem so close yet so far, as he curses, fighting for his life, before you hear them: the children, rhyming gleefully before you hear a very familiar _pop_.

It roars and Patrick screams one last time before him and the rhyming stops.

Bones crunch and flesh tears as it echoes around you.

It always takes an hour to feed – a voice says in your head – so It won’t be upset with you today.

You wonder when a dying child became such a relief for you.

Eventually you force your mind to empty, as you have done before, before the roots covering your hidden crack, pull back to reveal It, the Clown grinning widely with blood stained teeth.

Satiated.

_Happy._

“Found you~” It crooned, bopping those long fingers onto your nose.

A moment passes before you force yourself to smile – to end the game, happily, of course. Anything else would be _unacceptable._

You try not to think of the parts floating around him, just those eyes flashing red, yellow, silver before settling on beautiful, calm, blue.

“Yay, you win,” you say, wincing at how hoarse you sound but the clown seem to accept as It pulls you out, and then swings you into Its’ arms, bridal style. You tuck your head into Its chest, ignoring the lack of heartbeat. It can think you’re being affectionate, rather than trying not to think of the chunks of flesh floating around him.

“Well, I’m beat {y/n}, why don’t we take a nap?”

You nearly laughed because It never sleeps; at least not around you but it’s a reprieve, for you.

It doesn’t wait for you to reply, however, leaning down to kiss you softly, then possessively on your lips, growling as you respond back. The metallic taste no longer bothers you, but you don’t want to seem eager – Patrick had given you a gift – even in his death.

As It pulls back, face slack in bliss, you wonder for a dreadful moment if it didn’t but It giggled, then yawned exaggeratedly before marching back to the cistern.

It doesn’t let you sleep alone, not anymore, but this time Its’ arms were comforting as they are wrapped around you. The last thing you heard was that rhyme and before you slip, you hope in some way Patrick (Jane, Tommy, Chen, so so so many) will find peace.

(You ignore the tug mocking you.)


End file.
